How to become a literary, a luminary, to know and feel a sparkling flash of purpose and sense of self? In college, I dreamt of becoming a big city fish. In New York, I'm finding that everyone's a piranha.

Monday, January 22, 2007

Cain and DWK

I’ve lived with one of my roommates almost as long as I was enrolled in college, for as long as I’ve now been out in cubicled gray. Three years and some change; it’s a far cry from the manicured gardens of the Wa-D---.

Yet a vestigial remains. That prized ability that all young sorority girls possess and their graduated sisters let fade for heavy-bottomed wine glasses and dinner parties. The same one that led to the sandal-melting weekend at the Jersey Shore,everybody’s favorite Wednesday, and now, this. Little sleep, being a champ, boot and rally marathon. A weekend in full force has me sleeping with my head in the crook of my elbow, downing bottled water in between mini-REMs.

That’s where my roommate comes back in, well actually, his nickname for me about that once-prized ability. DWK, or dead-weight-K, also known as when fun drunk turns a little too fun, a shade lighter than sloppy, where all the good stories come in. Like when I wake up to find the following note somewhere in or on my coat:

“Cain…Punk Rock God of Virility and Social Etiquette.” Then a number (Cain’s, I’m assuming?).

Now here I’m in a bit of a dilemma. I’m impressed with this, somehow, I kind of find it to be funny. Not just the words, though they are kind of funny, in that way you pretend to think something’s funny just because it’s weird, meaning it’s obscure and therefore interesting so you must of course get it and you must of course like it. But also this: I have no coat pockets. I wasn’t even wearing my coat for most of the night. And Cain certainly never graced my apartment. So how did he…or someone else…?

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About Me

Barely the definition of an adult, I'm trying to navigate through the city, the scenesters, the lackies, the lonely, and wondering if
I'll ever fit in.
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